The Black Stone (24 page)

‘Don’t listen to him,’ advised the other man. ‘Moab’s is one silver per mount too, plus as much water as you need. Moab’s – over to the left. Has to be Moab’s!’

‘They’ll kill you with extras,’ insisted Sash.

‘Has to be Moab’s – thirty years a family business!’

Cassius – exhausted after another day in the saddle – was leaning forward, resting on his mount’s neck. He and Mercator looked at the enclosures. With dusk close, both were busy. Moab’s appeared marginally less so.

‘To the left?’

‘Left it is,’ replied the optio.

Sash was already looking for the next customer. Cassius hauled on his reins. As his horse lurched off the road he heard an angry shout. He turned and saw a camel just behind him. The animal brayed, showing a pink tongue and hideous yellow teeth coated with slobber. The rider was a plump man wearing immaculate white robes, a headband above his enraged face.

‘Curses upon you!’ he yelled in Greek. ‘Watch where you’re going!’

Cassius glared. The camel-rider looked at him, then at Mercator, then Indavara, then the auxiliaries, most of whom were staring back at him.

‘My apologies. Please – you first.’

Cassius guided his horse towards the middle arch of Moab’s, where half a dozen more camels were in a queue, waiting to enter. The riders had dismounted, reins in one hand, canes in the other. Each of the animals was heavily laden with clay jars secured by rope. Cassius had seen enough of them in Bostra to know most would contain frankincense – the precious gum harvested from the trees of Arabia Felix.

Unable to endure another minute in the saddle, he slid to the ground and almost fell when his right foot landed on a rogue walnut. Tightening his belt and bootlaces, he watched the others dismount.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, sir. Did your party just arrive?’

The man was rather more presentable than the first tax collector they’d encountered, but the interrogative expression was the same. He was accompanied by a clerk holding a pile of waxed tablets and two bored-looking legionaries.

‘Yes,’ said Cassius.

‘Are you a merchant?’

‘I am.’

‘With goods to declare?’

‘Actually, no. I’m just down here looking for trade opportunities.’

Cassius retrieved the token and showed it to the tax collector, as he had at several settlements in the last few days.

‘Mmm. You have a lot of men with you, lot of baggage too. Would you mind if the soldiers checked a few?’

‘Go ahead.’

As the administrator and the legionaries went to do their work, Mercator walked stiffly over to Cassius. ‘Not a lot of light left.’

‘Two hours at most. I shall head into the city and find us some accommodation if you can organise things here.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll leave a man on guard. We can meet at the King’s Tomb in an hour.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘First building you come to – two-thirds of the way along the Siq. Trust me, you’ll know it when you see it.’

Mercator walked away to brief the men, who had arranged themselves and their horses in an orderly line parallel to the road. The tax collector was examining a tablet with his clerk while the legionaries searched the bags.

Cassius’s horse was unsettled by all the camels so he collared one of the young lads from Moab’s and told him to look after it. Taking only his satchel, he walked over to Simo and Indavara.

‘You two grab anything essential and stick the rest on the mule with the “wine”– that barrel’s not leaving our sight. And hurry; I think there’s still quite a way to go before we reach the civilised bit.’

Once they were ready, Cassius led the way along the road towards the Siq. Indavara and Simo were carrying almost as much as the mule.

‘We’re fine, thanks,’ said the bodyguard.

‘Good. Consider yourself lucky you don’t have to bear the burden of leadership.’

Indavara glowered.

‘That’s called a metaphor,’ added Cassius. ‘Simo will tell you all about them some time.’ As he walked, he pushed the annoying bracelets up his forearm. ‘Sorry, but rich merchants don’t carry saddlebags.’

‘You can’t take
anything
?’ demanded Indavara. ‘Patch looks like he’s about to collapse.’

‘Patch?’

Indavara nodded at the mule, which was plodding along, ears twitching. Upon its left haunch was a patch of white fur.

‘Ten out of ten for originality. Why give a mule a name?’

Indavara tried to shrug but there was too much weight on his shoulders.

‘Horses can have names,’ said Cassius. ‘But not mules.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. They just don’t.’

The Siq was no more than ten yards wide. Once inside, only a narrow strip of sky was visible hundreds of feet above. A steady stream of people were walking in both directions, many now carrying torches, ready for the coming dark. The sandy ground was almost white, the pink-grey walls seamed with black and dotted with the odd plant.

‘Look how smooth the rock is,’ observed Indavara, reaching out to run his hand along it.

‘Must have been water flowing through here at some point,’ said Cassius. ‘Probably still does in the rainy months.’

Carved into the sides of the gorge were dozens of angular niches. Some contained wooden or metal figurines, some candles and lamps, others offerings of food and wine. Vendors who’d claimed valuable pitches beside this river of passers-by collected up their wares and joined the throng entering the city. Voices echoed off the walls, coalescing into a strange hum. They passed a flute player who seemed determined to use every last moment of daylight. He was producing a pleasing tune and his mug was half full of coins.

After about a mile, the Siq momentarily narrowed to five yards then opened out and bore around to the right.

‘By the great gods, look at that,’ said Cassius. ‘Must be the King’s Tomb.’

As the locals streamed past them, the three of them stopped to behold the monumental sight ahead. Hewn from the pale red rock was a vast, ornate façade at least two hundred feet high. The façade was made up of two sections, one above the other, and each boasting six colossal columns. Amongst the dozens of reliefs dwarfing the people below, Cassius picked out familiar gods and goddesses, griffins, eagles, even the writhing snakes of a Medusa head. In the middle of the bottom section was an immense, rectangular doorway; the largest he’d ever seen.

‘I’d heard it was impressive.’

He glanced at Simo and Indavara, both of whom seemed oblivious to the curses and shoves of those hurrying past.

‘First the Helios of Rhodes and now this,’ Cassius continued. ‘You two can’t say I haven’t taken you to some incredible sights. There’s another tale for you to tell.’

Indavara shook his head. ‘How could they carve that out of the rock?’

‘Workmanship, time, and a lot of money. See the female figure up on the second layer, Simo? Like the Tyche of Antioch.’

They followed the road around to the right. Below the tomb’s doorway, ten local guards stood on an equally massive set of steps, each armed with a sword hanging from a sash. Several of them scowled at the curious trio, as if even daring to look was an affront to their history and tradition.

‘Well,’ said Cassius as they walked on, ‘only the ancient kings of Nabatea are allowed to sleep in there. I fear we shall have to do with something rather more modest.’

Remarkable though the city was, Cassius soon began to find Petra rather annoying. There seemed to be little structure to the place: buildings had sprung up wherever there was room and there was no clear network of streets – just the canyons, staircases cut from the rock and perilous, zigzagging tracks heading upwards to the gods knew where. Even so, he had to admire not only the former capital’s enviable defensive position but also the provision of water. There seemed to be channels and pipes running everywhere; and even a few lush gardens fronting some of the larger properties.They did pass two symbols of familiarity: a colonnaded main street and a theatre – like Bostra’s – housed in a huge basin carved from the reddish stone.

Cassius made a few enquiries and they were eventually directed to a street that ran below dozens of inhabited caverns. It was hard to tell whether they occurred naturally or had been fashioned from the rocky slope. From inside many of them came the glow of firelight and the odd cry or bark of laughter.

Beyond the last of the caverns, the street opened up into a circular space. At the far end was a high, ancient-looking wall. In front of it was a broad, two-storey building that didn’t look much newer.

‘Do you think that’s it?’ said Cassius.

‘I can’t see anything else large enough to be an inn, sir,’ replied Simo.

Just then a small herd of black-haired goats trotted out of a ravine close by. Urging them along with a stick was a barefoot lad. Cassius got his attention and pointed at the building.

‘Inn?’ he asked in Greek.

The youth nodded and continued on his way, shouting at his charges in Nabatean.

‘Gods,’ said Cassius as they approached. ‘Doesn’t look very promising.’

‘Who cares?’ said Indavara. ‘As long as there are beds.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it.’

To the right of the building were several unoccupied stalls for horses. In front of the door was a counter lined with bowls for serving food but they contained only dust and leaves. On the first floor was a timber-built balcony, from which several damaged planks hung. Cassius couldn’t see a single light emanating from the place or hear a single sound.

‘Simo, do the honours.’

The attendant passed the mule’s rope to Indavara and put his saddlebags on the disused counter, then walked up to the door and knocked. They heard voices, then eventually saw a dim light through the numerous holes in the door. A latch was lifted and the door opened inwards.

The lamplight cast a murky glow across the wizened face of the elderly proprietor. He moved the lamp closer to Simo. ‘Cretheus, is that you? By Allat – you’ve put on a few pounds.’

‘Er, sorry, but we’ve never met. My master—’

‘We need rooms for the night,’ interjected Cassius. ‘Are you open?’

‘How many of you?’ asked the man, tugging at his wispy white beard.

‘Twenty-three.’

As the old man muttered something to himself, a woman bustled forward out of the shadows. Her face was just as wrinkled, her hair just as white, but she seemed considerably more energetic. She peered at Cassius and seemed particularly interested in his jewellery. Her Greek was obviously limited: ‘Yes, yes. Come, come, yes.’

She silenced the old man’s brief protest with a finger, then took the lamp from him and used it to light a lantern on a hook outside the door. She then wedged the door open and hurried back inside.

‘You do have the space?’ Cassius asked the old man.

‘Yes, of course. My name is Jabbal. Welcome to our humble hostelry.’

‘I hope the inside isn’t as humble as the outside.’

Jabbal turned an ear towards him. ‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing. How long before our rooms are ready?’

‘Yes, very cold.’

Cassius raised his voice. ‘No – I said how long before our rooms are ready?’

‘Oh, soon. Very soon.’